The Joys of Situational Irony
by Val-Creative
Summary: Damian had his own version of fingerstripes. Dick was not prepared for this. /DickxDamian. Futureverse. Smut. Oneshot.


x.x

Once upon a time (well, technically, a number of years ago) Dick had a very nifty costume with fingerstripes. He missed that costume actually. But not for the fingerstripes. Even though the fingerstripes had their…advantages at times. Like with Kory when he had been dating her. _Especially_ with Kory when Dick had been dating her. These _advantages_ seemed to stem from a fascination over the unique style of fingerstripes. There was apparently something attractive about them.

Dick couldn't really see it the way others could — and keeping this in mind, perhaps he had been immune to the sexual mastery…

…Immune to them… still_ so_, _so_ immune…

He insisted to himself, heaving in a tight, noisy breath through his nose in attempt to control the blood rushing in parts he dare not acknowledge at this moment as Damian extended out his arms at his sides with careful and frowning scrutiny. His muscles tauten beneath the black and pigment-green, shiny material of the costume.

"The weave feels lighter," the sixteen-year-old criticized aloud, warranting a hard yank on the collar of his black, hooded cape.

"Don't worry about that, the body armor I'm adding in later will weigh you down," Barbara Gordon replied from her chair with a fiercely cheerful smile. She continued adjusting and pinning sections of the green underside of the cape. "Everything is still Kevlar and made with the fire-resistant bolt. And the radio inside your mask is still giving off intermittent static so I need to check frequency errors-…"

Dick tuned out Barbara's further in-depth explanation on 'new proto-type smart-tech hoo-dooy' from his spot standing near the entrance of the Bunker's workshop. And went back to eyeballing Damian with semi-dread and most definitely _not_ arousal — if the blood could stay above his waist then that statement would not be a lie.

But focusing back on the costume for a moment, it had a resemblance to Damian's Robin getup with the laced boots and the paracape and the design of the utility belt. It also had a resemblance to the white and black bodysuit Dick had seen him in in the past.

But… _why_ the fingerstripes…?

"What on earth are you gawking at, Grayson?" The question from Damian across the room had been snappy and low.

Dick shook his head a little. "What is…?" was all he could manage from his cotton-feeling mouth. Barbara wiggled the end of Damian's two-toned cape with displeased teenager still attached, her smile overly large and cryptic. She knew something. Then again, when didn't Barbara know something he didn't?

"This? New costume design."

"_Rejected_ costume design," Damian corrected her offhandedly, holding up his pigment-green left hand to stare at the shiny and black stripes around his middle and ring finger. "What are even the point of these?" The redheaded woman on his right snickered quietly as she packed up the miniature sewing kit in her lap.

Dick's face darkened in color at certain mental images and he half turned away. The question comes out hoarsely, "What was wrong with the costume now?"

"He's outgrowing it, Dick. He's how old now?"

"_Tutt_. I am still present in the room," Damian mentioned with a glare through his triangle-shaped, dark mask. "And I would like to change out of this ridiculous atrocity as quickly as possible."

Barbara clasped the lid of her kit together. "I need that in one piece," she told the boy without expression, and then her bright green eyes flicked into Dick's direction. She_ KNEW _something. Dick's face paled from its former dark color at the same time Damian muttered something insulting under his breath, nearly herding her out of the workshop as she wheeled out. Damian threw the workshop door shut forcefully behind her, locking it.

He spun in place, the reflective lenses of his triangular mask thinning as he gazed at the older man not even a foot away. But without malice.

"_…Finally_."

One spoken word hovering in the room. With and without meaning. Little or nothing. The penchant emotion behind Damian's frustrated snarl, behind Damian's sudden grasp on his shoulders when he bent Dick forward and down to his level, behind Damian's botched attempt at a steamy kiss when it only sloppily covered Dick's upper lip and the stubble space above— the desired effect was still the same: the crotch area of Dick's recreation pants stiffened unbearably.

How many times in the past month had it been like this between them? When had they even known…?

"You've ignored me all day, Grayson."

Those smaller hands on his shoulders dug in tortuously. Damian's contact-warmed, saliva-slickened lips nudged his. "You can't ignore me anymore."

"..Sorry, I've-…"

"I have no need for mindless apologies."

Damian already scooted himself flat with his back to the cleared out workstation counter, once important items scattered to the laminated floor, and dragging Dick over him with an audible grunt of effort. He bucked up into him and Dick's arms trembled and — _christ —_ when had Damian gotten so hard…— "Just_ fuck_ _me_ already."

Dick worked his hands faster over the hidden catchings of this new, white utility belt. A faint laugh. "Should really work on your language."

"Now is not the time, Grayson."

"_Dick_," he insisted softly, firmly, letting the teenager squirm underneath him to slid the green, bottom half of his costume from his hips, and watching Damian's cock bob free; _reddened; dark cherry red_.

"That's what I -want- already."

"And what about what I want?"

Damian gestured him for the belt and fiddled with the seventh compartment on the side before pulling out what looked like a miniature, silverish packet. He tore it open with his teeth with a wild shake of his head and it leaked clear. Clear and glossy driblets down Damian's green, costumed fingers, down his fingerstri— _oh… dear god_… _…__ _

"It's the same thing, isn't it?" When Dick not answer, chest heaving, Damian asked hesitantly as the man's blue eyes focused intently on his fingers. "_…_Dick?"

"_Can you…_?"

He wasn't sure if Damian even understood where his lewd thoughts led and Dick choked back a surprised noise as Damian's black, costumed fingers strayed below himself,_ into himself_, and Damian's mouth widened with escaping, ragged gasping. Mind reader. Damian was a mind reader. _Hallelujah_. He stroked himself a moment as Damian's bare hips thrust against his, _faster_, _faster_, and Dick had to get rid of these recreation pants now because _aaahh_ _shit_ Damian was _riding_ himself above the counter like he could get off on this alone and the sounds_,_ the _sounds_ coming from him_…_

They intensified when Dick replaced those fingers, feeling how Damian's slippery fingers tangled into his hair, how tight he was, and they abandoned themselves to a narrowing world; _Damian; Damian; Damian; please; fuck; Dick_; a world crashing and blurring and they needed to anchor themselves to each other; _teeth; nails; legs; flesh;_ to breathe again steady. T

he shape of Dick's fingers bruised into Damian's thigh hours later. Bleeding teeth mark wounds on Dick's collarbone that need a light sheen of antiseptic.

Despite these details, the costume remained in one piece. In an indirect way, Barbara would have been proud.

x.x

* * *

><p><em>Companion fanart piece of Damian's outfit by the asterous <strong>Vladbride<strong>_:

_ .com [slash] post [slash] 6076535072 [slash] damian-in-his-own-set-of-fingerstripes-vladbride_

_And yes... this was basically written for the smut and the costume. X-D Heehee~  
><em>


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